The Ghost of 221B
by Nuttynube
Summary: Sherlock Holmes passed away at just 8 years old, leaving his family devastated. 25 years later, however, and his unfinished business still hangs over his head. He can't be sure if he will ever move on, but it suddenly doesn't matter when someone finally sees him.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Adventures**

**Sherlock POV**

* * *

Mummy always worries. She says that Mycroft causes her far less trouble, and she wishes I would follow his example. Perfect Mycroft. Even when he's never here, I can't live up to his example.

Dad says I'm perfect the way I am. Whenever I come back with scratched up knees and a black eye, he puts me on the kitchen counter and goes to find the first aid kit. He listens to my discoveries, sometimes encourages them, and gets the skull and cross bones plasters. Those are my favourite. Then he takes me out to walk Redbeard because apparently we both need wearing out. I take them both to the ponds, and we play pirates in the little abandoned rowing boat. He lets me be the Captain. When Mycroft was here, I never got to be captain. Still he always taught me the best things, and I miss our adventures.

I suppose this adventure got a little bit out of hand. More than a little bit. Plasters with skulls and crossbones can't really patch together a gunshot wound.

I can hear the doctors now, but the sound is distant. There's movement, and I see them taking the body away. My body. Someone's calling my name. Mummy's crying. They won't let her in yet; they're all too busy rushing around me. I just stand, watching them go about the process, but I know it's too late. I'm over here, I want to say, I'm not going back in.

Mycroft arrives as the doctors finally step back, calling time of death. I see him drop his umbrella, I hear the thud, but my attention is elsewhere. There's a light. I feel like it's beckoning me. I want to go to it. I move a little closer, and I feel it's warmth.

To leave it all behind, to forget the pain and the bullies and the boredom, and go towards that feeling of warmth is so tempting. I reach out and the light touches my hand. It twinkles in a way that sickens me. So cliche, I think. I've almost made up my mind to go, but then there's a policeman. He's talking to my family. They don't know who shot me. I don't know who shot me. Where was I today? What happened?

The mystery hangs in front of me. The question dangles before my nose like the carrot before the donkey. I contemplate it for just one more second. Then I pull my hand back. I step away, and it fades away until I'm left in the harsh, clinical hallway of the hospital, and the light here is too bright and gives everyone a tired, sallow look.

Dad's got his arm around mummy, and Mycroft is sat beside them, looking desperately at the vending machine. Clearly still eating in moments of stress. None of them speak, they just sit. I join the silent group. I fall into line as I always have.

I won't go. I have an unsolved mystery to attend to before the light. My unfinished business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Flickers**

**John POV**

* * *

The girl looked sad. I only glimpsed her for a moment, but it was all I needed to see the anguish carved into the pretty features. She was trying to get someone's attention, anyone's really, and frantically rocking the sobbing child in her arms. She looked to only be twenty years old. Tragic, really. They were both to young to die. She was the first.

I kept getting odd glimpses, flickers of people, in the streets. I didn't take much notice of it really at first. They just seemed like normal people, and it was hardly of any interest to me. My mind was on other things. It was only during a reunion with a group of old friends, army buddies who had also been invalided home, that I realised that I wasn't seeing the world as everyone else had been seeing it.

There was a red-head at the bar; stunning, curvy, with a smirk like the devil and heels so sharp they should probably be classed as a weapon. My interest had been sparked immediately – after all, she hardly seemed the sort to frequent a pub like the one in which we were spending our evening – and it ad only increased when she noticed me looking and held my gaze. I smiled and one of companions had clapped me on the shoulder,

"Old Three Continents Watson's got his eye on someone, lads! Let's see how he does it. Learn from the master. Who is she?" I had nodded my head towards the bar and the men had all looked, their faces turning to ones of confusion,

"The red-head," I'd said, hoping to clear it up for them.

"Sorry mate, I think she's left." I frowned, looking her straight in the eye,

"No, she's right—" Someone had walked through, blocking my view of her for a second, and she was gone. I swivelled in my seat, trying to spot where she'd gone, and then shrugged into my pint, "I guess so. Pity," I said, scratching my head slightly.

It was, when the others were collecting their coats, that one of the younger lads – I never spoke to him much but he was always around, idolising the older men – had sidled up to me,

"You weren't imagining her, you know. I saw her, too." I laughed it off, clapping him on the back,

"Good to know, I was worried there for a minute."

"None of the others could see her." I tightened my grip slightly on his shoulder, cocking my head slightly,

"Well, I think she'd wondered off by then, and they just didn't get a glimpse—"

"No, you know as well as I do that they were all staring at her directly, but only we could see her." My hand dropped, the tremor running through it slightly,

"Sorry, I don't know what you're—"

"I think you do, Dr Watson. I've been able to see them since I got sent home. We were both near-death experiences, weren't we? We knocked on death's door and only just got away, unlike the others." I cleared my throat, feeling uncomfortable, and I looked to the others for an escape route. None of them were paying attention. They were all checking the score on the TV behind the bar. I don't even know what game was on.

"Yes, I don't see why that's important though." He held something out to me, and I frowned down at the small, white piece of card. "What's this?"

"Just give her a ring. She can help sort you out. My head was all over the place when I got home and when I realised I was seeing ghosts, and she helped get me straight. Don't mention the ghosts though," he said, laughing nervously. "You don't want to get locked up."

"No, no I wouldn't want that," I muttered. Ghosts, he had said.

That's how I ended up in Ella's office. Feeling a bit of a prick, really. Surely he was pulling my leg, but he seemed so damn sincere. I couldn't really just come out and call him a liar. Besides, it had happened a couple more times. People appearing, just for a minute or two, in the corner of my eye, and then disappearing when I tried to look at them properly or make contact. I'd been on the end of more than my fair share of odd looks from strangers who saw me try to talk to thin air, only to change my mind and walk away. In the end, I thought I might go mad if I didn't talk to someone. Without mentioning ghosts of course.

It hadn't helped much. I went a few times, tried to sort myself out, but the feeling of sorting my head out that James had mentioned wasn't happening. I felt uncomfortable talking to someone in such a clinical situation about my deepest thoughts and fears. I couldn't unburden myself. Every single time I left the office feeling as downright depressed as I felt going in, and it didn't help that I was seeing odd shadowy people in my peripheral vision all day everyday.

It was strange. Most of the ghosts seemed to have come to terms with their new lives and seemed to just be going about their daily business on a whole. After that first girl, most of them seemed at peace in limbo. They went to the supermarket to lshop for food they no longer needed but no longer had to worry about being able to afford, they visited their families, they indulged in all the free cinema and theatre that they could – since no ticket attendant could see them to throw them out – and I even glimpsed an old man throwing pieces of bread to a bemused duck. I chuckled slightly seeing the look on a nearby child's face, watching a loaf floating in mid-air and being torn apart by the wind, and I didn't notice the person walking in the other direction at the same time.

Mike Stamford of Bart's Medical School. It had been a short, uncomfortable conversation on the park bench, and I was itching to get away from it. Somehow, however, he managed to rope me into following him and heading back to the old place. He said he had someone he wanted me to meet.

It was only when we were walking back the way he had come from that I saw him flicker ever so slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Mobile Possessions**

**John POV**

* * *

Walking back into that teaching lab after so long was a strange feeling. So much in my life had changed, so much in the world had changed, and yet I was here and it was the same place, and yet everything was different. I let out a whistle, and noticing the other occupant of the room glance in my direction, I remarked casually, not particularly to him or to Mike,

"Well, bit different from my day." The man went back to his microscope, and I expected that to be the end of it.

I eyed him out of the corner of my eye. Tall, slender and dark haired, not unattractive, and with sharp cheekbones made even stronger by the shadow cast by the microscope. I expected him to carry on paying no attention to me, or to Mike - thinking he would be unable to see my ghostly companion - and I was thinking about making a hasty retreat and giving Mike an excuse when the man spoke,

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" I did a slight double take, looking between the strange man and my old school friend, and saw that Mike was just shaking his head, a smile on his face,

"Why don't you just use the normal methods, Sherlock?" The other man rolled his eyes, and I looked at Mike in confusion. What other methods was he talking about?

"You know I detest all that telepathic nonsense. Gives me a headache."

"And possessing a mobile to send messages is so much easier?" I blinked in surprise, beginning to realise what they meant, and turned to stare at the new man intently, waiting for the telltale flicker that would give him away as spectral. No such luck, he seemed as solid and living as I did.

"Relatively."

"I heard about your trick at Scotland Yard, possessing all those mobiles to give your police officer friend a run about. Why not just get a medium like a sensible person-"

"Detective inspector," said the man, returning to his work. "Lestrade is a detective inspector, and he listens to my signals. Why go to the extra bother of finding someone to communicate to him when he can understand in his own."

"If anyone ever found out that Casper the friendly ghost is the one who's really been solving those cases then he won't be a police inspector anymore. He'll be locked away as a lunatic-"

"Oh for God's sake," snapped the man, looking frustrated as he looked up from his microscope.

His attention turned from Mike, and it focused on me,

"You're living, you must have a mobile on you. Mike only ever has one when he can put in the effort to carry one." I gaped at him. I assumed he would just think I hadn't seen him, but apparently he'd noticed me looking.

"Yes, good service, too," I said, lamely, holding out the phone to him. He accepted it with a short thank you, and Mike stepped up to my shoulder,

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." The man nodded, still sending his text,

"Clearly took better care of his heart than you, Mike, since he's still in the realm of the living."

"Yes, I often wonder how things would have turned out if I'd taken my own advice. A doctor dying in his early forties from a heart attack, shocking really." The man raised a silent eyebrow, and then handed the phone back to me,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" I asked, nonplussed.

"Which was it?" he pushed. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," I said, looking to Mike in surprise. I knew the ghosts had some sort of spectral telepathic wavelength for keeping in touch, but I didn't realise news could travel quite so fast. "You told him about me?"

The door opened, interrupting Mike's answer, and I rushed to look occupied and like I belonged, so I wouldn't look like an idiot talking to thin air. I needn't have bothered. The woman who entered was carrying two coffees, and she made an immediate bee-line for Sherlock,

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

"Should I just put it here for you? I made it extra strong so you might just get a taste of it." He visibly strained to pick it up, putting it to his lips, and he sipped with a grimace,

"Yes, I can just about taste it. Possibly more the placebo effect, though, I imagine." The woman nodded eagerly,

"Well, at least we know you can taste something-"

"Nothing so good as when I was alive," he said, looking disgusted by the coffee.

"You can see him?" I asked. She looked over at me and did a slight double-take.

"Oh, goodness. I see so many spirits I often can't see the living people anymore."

"This is Molly Hooper," Mike said. "She was one of my students here before I passed away."

"He was the first person I ever saw... you know, die. I didn't realise I could see ghosts until he wandered in here a week later and nearly gave me a heart attack. That was the day I decided on forensic pathology," she said, cheerily.

Sherlock said something to her about her lipstick, but I wasn't listening. I was absorbed in my thoughts, feeling increasingly confused. His voice broke me out of it,

"How do you feel about the violin?" I looked up, glancing around to be sure that he was in fact talking to me,

"Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Flatmates? Sorry, but why would you need a flatmate? You're dead. You could pick anywhere you want to live and the owners would have no idea." He smirked at me slightly,

"Precisely. I need someone who can communicate with me, act as a sounding board if you will. You're one of the first people I've met who can see me. Mike's been trying to find me a medium for years, and here you are a few hours after my mentioning I was looking for a living live-in, clearly just back from Afghanistan."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" I asked, but the man ignored me in favour of adjusting his scarf and pulling on a huge, over-the-top coat. Of all the outfits he could pick in the world, literally having the pick of anything, ghosts seemed able to change into anything at will, he had to choose that big, overly dramatic thing. It did look rather striking, but that was besides the point.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. The landlady recently passed, owing me a favour, and she's worked out a good price with her son. I'll get a message trough to my brother to store my things there. He might not be able to see me, but he can pick up on my haunting a well enough. It should be affordable for you on an army pension." I watched, open-mouthed, as he headed for the door,

"We can meet there tomrrow, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" I called after him. He paused and turned back towards me by the door,

"Is that what?" he asked.

"We've only just met, and now you're expecting me to just move in to help you haunt some poor bloke who's just lost his mother?"

"Problem?" he asked, an infuriatingly smug look on his face. I couldn't help my disbelieving smile.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, and I don't even know your name." He smiled, strolling back over towards me from the door,

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you're new to all of this, seeing ghosts and being able to communicate with them, and I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." He smirked, "That's enough to be going on, don't you think?"

I shuffled awkwardly, looking down at my much despised leg, and he used my distraction as an opportunity to walk away. He turned at the door, popping his head back around the wood, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at me and then looked at Mike, "Afternoon." I didn't have time to say another word before he had disappeared round the door, leaving me bewildered.

"He's always like that," Mike said. "And I don't know why he goes to the extra effort of opening the door when he could just walk through it, or better yet just teleport to wherever he needs to go. A lot less effort. I mean what's the point of spectral powers if you never used them?"

I just nodded and said my excuses, rushing out after the dark haired man to see the corridors empty. I bid Mike a quick farewell, my head still reeling from everything that had happened. I needed to straighten it out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Jennifer Wilson**

**John POV**

* * *

The next day I found myself stood outside 221B Baker Street, wondering what the Hell I had let myself in for. It was bad enough that I was seeing dead people; let alone accepting them as my landladies and flat-mates. Still, there was an unshakeable feeling about this man. Sherlock Holmes was truly something, and I felt like there was a reason I was seeing these people. I needed to know why Sherlock in particular never seemed to flicker. All of these people, these ghosts, were impermanent. They passed me in the street and they were shadows; I could tell that they were not of this world. Sherlock, however, was different. He seemed so full of life, and he seemed so _present._ I almost forgot that he wasn't really there when he climbed out of a taxi, leaving a bemused taxi-driver staring at his open door.

I accepted the cold handshake without thinking, feeling like I had plunged my hand into a bucket of ice-water, but luckily nobody seemed to notice me shaking hands with thin air. I glanced down at the touch in surprise. I half-expected my hand to pass straight through. He didn't acknowledge my confusion, so I just cleared my throat and moved on.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I insured it." He smiled as the door opened, revealing a petite lady with a huge smile on her face. She opened her arms, and he stepped into it without hesitation.

"Sherlock, hello," she said, patting him on the back. He nodded, stepping past into the darkened hallway without dithering, and she turned her attention to where I was stood, awkwardly hovering on the doorstep and wondering if I was really going to go through with this bizarre situation.

"Come in, dear. I imagine you don't want to be stood out in the street gaping through into an open door. People do talk, although we've got all sorts around here." I nodded, briskly walking into our potential new residence. The landlady, as testament to her other-worldly disposition, flickered in and out of sight every few seconds, but she was sweet and inviting, and the house itself was warm and comfortable. She smiled at me, "I would offer you a handshake, or somethind else of the sort, but I'm afraid I never quite mastered touching humans, unlike Sherlock. Doors and teapots, that's my speciality. Would you like anything?"

"A cup of tea, would be lovely," I said. She nodded, gesturing for me to follow after Sherlock. At least I had my answer for how he had held my hand in the cold hand shake. He was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, staring at me with a calculating expression, and I rushed to meet him.

The flat was surprisingly nice inside, for the price we would be paying, though slightly chaotic with clutter,

"Well, this could be very nice," I said. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes, my thoughts precisely." He turned around, looking very pleased, as I picked up some of the mess to get a closer look. I wondered briefly if it was the dusty old possessions from the landlady's past life.

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..." I trailed off as he said,

"Yes, that's why I went ahead and moved straight in." We stood awkwardly for a moment, before he cleared his throat, "Yes, well, I can straighten things up. I've accumulated a lot of things in the past few years, and add that to everything my brother kept from my... time before. I can straighten it all up."

"No, no, it's fine. I can't imagine your brother would be happy with my getting rid of his deceased sibling's possessions." My eyes settled on a skull on the mantle-piece, and he caught me looking,

"Friend of mine. Well, I say friend." I peered at him suspiciously, and then looked back at the skull, which was no doubt real and rather small.

"That's yours, isn't it?" I asked. He looked surprisingly unperturbed as he stared at the thing,

"Well, it's rather difficult haunting a place when there's not something of yourself there to give you some permanence. I had my brother bring me here when I knew I would be staying. Mrs Hudson keeps telling me to move it."

"I can't imagine why," I said.

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the landlady appeared with a tea-set,

"Oh, you haven't put your skull on the mantelpiece again. Dr Watson doesn't want to look at you staring down at him when he's trying to watch television. You'll give him an aneurysm, Sherlock."

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson. I'm living with a spirit; I can certainly handle a skull on the mantelpiece."

"Well, it's not very nice for me to have to look at," she carried on. "I had my son put my ashes in a lovely urn in my living room. Much nicer, don't you think?" I hummed in agreement as she placed her tea-set on the coffee table. "Now, what do you think, Dr Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Well, of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh don't worry, Sherlock doesn't sleep much. Very nocturnal. I wasn't sure he'd be wanting a room, and even if he would then I don't mind you just having the other one. Like I said, we have all sorts around here." I didn't get a chance to object before she was bustling off, tidying as she went.

"So, what's her story?" I asked, seating myself in the more comfortable of the two armchairs. Sherlock was still busy with the mess, trying to make it half-way presentable. He didn't seem to have taken a word in from the whole conversation.

"Sorry?"

"This is a bit of a weird situation. Ghost landlady and tenant, and the son's just happy to let you all go about haunting his property?"

"Her son knows about her current position in limbo, he's one of the lucky few that can see his loved one after her passing - though he can't see anyone else, he's not a medium - and he wanted her to have somewhere familiar until she could decide how and when to move on. He doesn't need the money from seeling, and he didn't want to sell his mother's place of rest if it will help her pass onto the next world. I think he had hoped that my solving her murder would help, but no such luck. He's allowing me to stay here in the hopes of my finding a solution. It's what I do."

"And I'm here, why?"

"Well, he might as well make some money on the property," Sherlock said with a smile. Mrs Hudson reappeared, a newspaper in her hand,

"What about these murders then, Sherlock?" she asked. "I thought they'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four," said a voice from the doorway. There was a women stood at Mrs Hudson's shoulder, little more than just a glimmer of light, in a pink jacket. She didn't have the solidity of Sherlock, and she flickered even more than Mrs Hudson. "I heard that there was someone here who could help me. Mr Holmes, I presume."

"You are correct," he said. "Take a seat." She stood awkwardly, staring at the armchair he gestured, "Ah, I see. You've yet to master contact with objects."

"I can stand," she said, stepping into the room and positioning herself by the door. "I heard that you solve murders."

"Only the interesting ones," he said, looking her over with an analytical eye.

"And you help ghosts to move on?"

"That's often a by-product of solving the murder, yes, but not the sole purpose. Tell me what you know." She shook her head, looking slightly dazed,

"I don't remember very much. All I remember is waking up in an abandoned house and looking down at my body... and thinking that I recognised it—"

"Did you not know it was you?" I asked, curious as to how she could not recognise herself.

"Not at first. I could tell there was something familiar about her, but it was only when I caught a glimpse of my reflection that I knew she was me. I waited with her until the police came, and then I left after I heard what had happened. I didn't know what her name was... what _my _name was, until one of the police read it off my cards – Jennifer Wilson still seems like a stranger to me – but one of the ghosts I met told me there was a detective who helps people like me."

"What was the address?" Sherlock asked, looking deep in thought.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." He nodded, filing the information away, but I was still flabbergasted.

"How do you not remember something like who you are?"

"We don't remember those things when we first wake up, dear," Mrs Hudson said, hovering at the anonymous pink woman's shoulder. "I remember that I couldn't get a thing straight for about two months until I chanced upon Sherlock. He tracked down my son and my husband in no time. Solved my murder just like that, and ever since then I've been clear as a drop of rainwater. Never a trouble with my memory any more, thank goodness. It might even be better than when I alive."

"That's what I want," said the woman, looking at Sherlock eagerly. "I want to know who I am." He raised an eyebrow, and then stepped up to get a better look at her. His job was made more difficult by the faintness of her form, but he persisted in flicking his eyes up and down. He took her hand, holding it up to look at the chipped pink nails, and she explained, "She wrote Rache on the floor, carved it into the wood, but I don't know why." He nodded, before working the ring off her finger and looking at it closely then returning it to its position, "I don't remember my husband."

"You wouldn't," he said, bluntly, glancing over the rest of her jewellery. He ran a hand over her coat, looked at his fingertips, and then pulled an umbrella from her pocket. He ran his fingertip over the dry fabric, and finally he stepped back.

"Got anything," she asked, eagerly. He busied himself with the mobile phone abandoned on his desk, not looking at her,

"Not much," he said, nonchalantly. "Dr Watson, what do you think?" I looked up at him in surprise.

"I'm not part of this—"

"Who's he?" she asked, seeming to only notice my presence in the flat now.

"He's a doctor. An army doctor, in fact."

"Yes," I said, shuffling under his hard gaze.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then? A lot of deaths."

"Mmm, yes," I said. I was beginning to see where this was going, and I could feel myself being sucked in by the intrigue of the situation.

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime," I said, truthfully. "Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh god, yes," I said. He smirked, and then gestured to the woman, who was stood politely watching me. Mrs Hudson shook her head,

"Look at the two of you, getting all excited. It's not decent with the poor girl in the room."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" He threw his mobile down on the desk, gesturing eagerly for me to step up.

I cleared my throat slightly, uncomfortable at what I was about to do,

"Is she the same as the corpse?" I asked.

"Absolute mirror image. unless she chooses otherwise. She's the picture of the moment of death."

"Not all of us are like that though, dear," Mrs Hudson said. "I didn't much fancy wearing the same outfit for the rest of my days, you do get bored. Oh, and the bullet-wound was a tad unsightly. I changed all of that as soon as Sherlock showed me how to do it." I stared after her slightly open-mouthed, curious to find out more, but she was gone. Sherlock didn't seem to notice my surprise, so I just shrugged it up and stepped forward.

"May I?" I asked the woman, who was eyeing me cautiously.

"Whatever you need, doctor," she said, softly. I nodded, leaning in to sniff her breath and looking at her apologetically when she caught my eye.

"Well, I would say asphyxiation," I said, addressing my analysis to Sherlock. "She obviously passed out and choked on her own vomit, but I can't smell any alcohol on her breath. It could have been a seizure, or possibly drugs-"

"You know what it is, you've read the papers-"

"So she is one of the suicides then. The fourth-" I was interrupted by the return of Mrs Hudson,

"Sherlock, dear, you have a visitor."

I turned, expecting another ghost, but it was a solid, flesh and blood man who passed through the door. His attention went to Sherlock first, sliding over the woman, and then he glanced at me open-mouthed,

"Well, I wasn't expecting to find one of the living in the haunted house," he said, grinning as he held out a hand to me.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said, gesturing to the man. "And this is Dr Watson, he's going to be living with me. In the very loose sense of living that I can achieve." The detective raised an eyebrow in an all too familiar way,

"Just a flat-mate," I said, quick to correct the assumption. The eyebrow dropped.

"Right, what was it then?" he asked. It took me a moment to realise the question was directed at me.

"Sorry? What was what?"

"The near-death experience. Most of the mediums I know – that is the people who see more than just their loved ones – have had a near-death experience."

"Afghanistan," I said. He nodded, knowingly. "Yourself?"

"Being a copper in London's a nasty business," he said, bluntly. "I got in a bit deep a few years back." He scratched the back of his head, turning back to Sherlock,

"Brixton, Lauristen Gardens?" Sherlock asked. The man's eyes widened slightly,

"Blimey, the ghostly private messaging system is getting quicker."

"She's here," Sherlock said, gesturing to the woman.

"Jennifer Wilson?" Lestrade asked, looking in her direction, but clearly not seeing. I couldn't blame him, she was so faint that she almost looked like sunlight shining through water.

"A bit to the right," I said. He nodded, evidently still not seeing because his eyes slid past her.

"You must have been a close call, Dr Watson, if you can see her, because my abilities just aren't up to scratch."

"The doctors said I was legally dead for about three minutes," I said quietly.

"Well, I saw a light, but I was never at the point of death. I see Sherlock well because I've known him for a long time, but I can't see his clients most of the time." He gave up trying to find the pink clad woman now and returned his attention to the dark-haired ghost, "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"I don't know why you bother using taxis, Sherlock. Click of your fingers and you're there, but you put yourself through a lot of extra effort. Sometimes I think you forget that you're dead." Sherlock didn't respond.

When the detective left us, he looked to Jennifer Wilson,

"I'll be in contact when I have further information. It might be best if you take yourself off to a relative or friend's for the duration of the investigation. Spirits often find a great deal of discomfort arising from being near their corpse so shortly after passing. I'll send you an address when I get it. You're welcome to stay here until that time." She nodded gratefully and moved towards the sofa, looking at it wistfully, "It's best to visualise yourself sitting on it. You have to really picture it, and remember exactly what it feels like." She pulled a face before squeezing her eyes shut and easing herself down. She sunk a few centimetres into the surface, but she stuck. He nodded and then gestured for me to follow.

"That was kind, what you just did," I said, as we descended to where the door lay open, ready for us to follow after Lestrade.

"I taught her how to sit in a chair-"

"Not that bit. Letting her stay back, and saving her the discomfort. Was it like that when you passed?" He cleared his throat, and he didn't quite answer the question.

"It makes for a more cooperative client. I've taken a few with me to crime scenes, and they quickly become a nuisance. I find it easier this way." I shook my head at his need to reaffirm that he wasn't being kind, and something was pressed into my hand. I looked down at the bluetooth headset.

"What's this?"

"I usually use them with living clients. It makes for less embrassment than wondering around talking to yourself, and it means I get an easier conversation." He stuck his hand out, intending to hail a taxi, and then – apparently remembering that they couldn't see him – he looked at me. I was struck by the feeling that maybe Lestrade was right about him forgetting what he was.


End file.
